


I'm Not Good At This

by triggerswaggiehavoc



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ambiguous Relationships, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of alcohol, there's much sex but no explicit detail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerswaggiehavoc/pseuds/triggerswaggiehavoc
Summary: Friends are friends, pals are pals, bodies fit together.Mean it truly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> yo just a heads up there are a few mentions of throwing up at the beginning but no description thereof, and more importantly, there are spoilers for the following things if u have not seen them: wreck-it ralph, zootopia, and desperate housewives  
> bizarre, i know. happy reading!

It’s one of those parties where everyone on campus is going, but somehow the literal only person anyone knows who’s going is the person who invited them to go. Of course, Soonyoung is too rambunctious to go somewhere he only knows one person, so it’s only natural that he invites Jihoon to come with him—though if you asked Jihoon, his verb of choice would more than likely be “forced”—and thusly converts him into one of the people who doesn’t know anyone but the person who invited them. Jihoon makes extra sure to do copious amounts of grumbling throughout the entire duration of their walk there, pointedly informing Soonyoung at the end of every sentence that he’s not paying attention to what he’s saying and is highly pissed he’s being made to attend in the first place.

“I barely even know this guy, actually,” Soonyoung admits as they make their way down the sidewalk at a pace that is both too leisurely and too purposeful for Jihoon’s taste. “I can never remember if his name is Brett or Edgar or DJ.”

“You’re making me come to this stupid party and you can’t even pick out the host’s name from three incredibly different options?” Jihoon groans when he sees the swarm of people down the street flocking into what he can only assume is the party house. “Remind me why I still associate with you.” The next streetlight they walk under flickers in a manner that is not at all comforting, and Jihoon is just sure that it’s an indicator of how much fun he’s about to not have.

“Because you forget your key a lot and rely on my benevolence to let you back in,” Soonyoung singsongs. Jihoon inconveniently remembers that he’s neglected to bring his key with him tonight as well, so it looks like he’ll be trapped in hell until Soonyoung’s had his desired amount of fun. Terrific.

The closer they get, the more sure Jihoon is his predictions for the evening will turn out to be correct. An obscenely large crowd stands out on the lawn making all kinds of racket that Jihoon is sure the neighbors are absolutely thrilled about, and he can already feel the bass from the music blasting out of the house threatening to rattle his ribcage apart. Just beside the mailbox stands a group of three or four super cool guys vaping like champs, and the moment Soonyoung steers them onto the lawn, one of them blows an enormous cloud directly into Jihoon’s face; if that weren’t enough to seal the deal, the second he breaks free of the fog he’s pegged in the side of the head by a beanbag, caught dead in the center of an inebriated game of cornhole, and he honest to god wishes they could go home right now.

“Wait, holy shit,” Soonyoung says as they weave through the maze that is the lawn, not doing a very good job at making sure Jihoon is still with him. If he had his key, he’d be good and gone by now for sure. He curses his past self internally for being so careless. “Wonwoo!” Soonyoung shouts suddenly, and Jihoon’s ears perk up in relief. If Wonwoo’s here, it means he might have someone to talk to who doesn’t get so hammered after fifteen minutes that he can hardly spell his own name, and that alone could be the deciding factor in whether he actually survives.

He elevates himself as much as possible to try to get a good view of whether the person Soonyoung’s called out to is actually Wonwoo or he’s just prematurely drunk and mixing up faces, but there are too many people for him to get a proper look. When they part for just a second, though, he finds with great joy that the head of dark hair turning around does turn out to be connected to his glasses-wearing friend, and he sends up an internal prayer to thank whoever orchestrated this stroke of luck. Wonwoo’s face spreads into a wide and toothy smile when he sees them, arm flying up enthusiastically to offer a wave.

“Soonyoung!” he calls cheerfully. “I didn’t know you were coming.” His eyes flit to Jihoon almost immediately, lighting up in an entirely different way. “And you brought Jihoon! Thank god.”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung says proudly, like he’s accomplished something terrific by forcing Jihoon to accompany him, “I was probably gonna go crazy if the only person I knew was DBredgar, but since you’re here, I guess I didn’t need to bring Jihoon.” Wonwoo makes no indication that he notices the horrendous conglomeration of a name Soonyoung’s just called their host, only nodding sympathetically in response.

“If I had known you were coming, I wouldn’t have had to bring Junhui,” he states. Soonyoung looks like he might jump out of his skin with excitement.

“You brought Junhui?” he nearly shrieks, earning a cornhole beanbag tossed angrily in their direction. The thrower was less than sober, though, so it hits the back of Jihoon’s head instead.

“Hell yeah, I did,” Wonwoo bellows, extending his hand for a high five. Jihoon glances uncertainly between the two of them, unsure whether Junhui is the name of a person or a euphemism for something they’re inexplicably unwilling to bring up by name. “Oh yeah,” Wonwoo says when he sees the look on Jihoon’s face, snapping his fingers, “you two haven’t met yet.”

At a prod from Wonwoo’s bony elbow, the tall guy standing next to him pivots around in confusion. When he spots Soonyoung, they exchange an enthusiastic high five, both breaking into wide grins, and once he notices Jihoon, he lets his eyes rest on him curiously, charming smile still displayed in full. Jihoon’s very confident he’s never seen him before, but he gets a bizarre sense of familiarity looking at his face and he can’t even begin to put his finger on why. He runs his eyes over the freckles arcing over his face a few times before Wonwoo speaks up again.

“This is Jihoon,” he says to the man at his side with a gesture of his hand, “and Jihoon, this is Junhui.”

“Nice to meet you,” Junhui says in a warm voice, and he takes Jihoon’s hand in one that’s equally warm. He’s got big hands, strong ones, and were Jihoon not such an upstanding citizen with such an impregnable moral code, he might or might not be thinking some less than pure thoughts about where else he might like to have them.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says back as cordially as he can manage, and Junhui’s eyes crinkle up.

“You don’t really seem like you want to be here,” he observes, and Jihoon could almost laugh at the severity of that understatement.

“That’s because I don’t want to be here,” he confirms, jabbing a thumb to his left. “Soonyoung made me—”

“What a kidder,” Soonyoung interjects frantically. He hates for people to know that he’s always making Jihoon do things with him because he says it makes him seem too pushy. Jihoon says that’s only because he is too pushy. “He’s absolutely thrilled to be here, this guy. Trust me.” Junhui raises his eyebrows, a bemused half-smile replacing the beam that had been present moments ago, but he doesn’t say anything more. “Anyway, where’s the alcohol?”

It’s not long before he locates it, leading the four of them through a side door and into the abominably packed kitchen, where the entire table and all the counters are covered end to end in glass bottles of various shapes and sizes, at least half of which Jihoon is sure will wind up broken. If he gave even half a shit, he’d feel really bad for all the clean-up BJ or Tedgar or whatever his name is is going to have to do later, but he is tragically apathetic. He only becomes more so after he watches Soonyoung down three shots of something unidentified within the space of five minutes.

“Not much of a drinker?” Junhui’s voice comes to him a little more than half an hour later as they watch Soonyoung attempt for the fourth time in a row to prove to the other partygoers that he can do a handstand. By this point, Jihoon has long stopped flinching when his body smacks into the ground with a brutal thud upon failure.

“I mean, not necessarily,” Jihoon says, glancing at the water remaining in his cup, “but one of us is going to need the use of fine motor skills to get the door unlocked, and it’s not going to be Soonyoung.” Junhui chuckles and takes a sip of whatever’s in his cup. Jihoon gets the feeling it’s not water.

“So you two live together?” he asks, and Jihoon nods. Junhui blinks once slowly. “That makes sense.”

“How so?” Jihoon makes no attempt to hide his skepticism, and Junhui kind of laughs, a short breathy sound that he cuts off almost before it’s begun.

“I just mean,” he says, glancing over at Soonyoung, who has given up showcasing his handstand abilities and moved on to a beer chugging contest, “you don’t seem like the kind of person who would be here hanging out with him at your own leisure. You seem more like a babysitter.”

“I definitely deserve to get paid, that’s for damn sure.” Jihoon shudders as he watches Soonyoung use the edge of the table to violently wrench the cap off the bottle, sloshing some onto the carpet in the process. He can already smell the impending puke when he sees how fast Soonyoung drains the whole thing and picks up another. A few yards to his right, Wonwoo cheers him on unhelpfully, both thumbs up as he screams “Keep going, one more! You can win this!” Jihoon knows his voice won’t be anywhere to be found tomorrow. “How do you all know each other?” he asks in an attempt to get his mind off the thirty-one headaches Soonyoung will be giving him later.

“Wonwoo was in my chemistry class last fall,” he says with a nod of his head. “He helped me move a couch once.”

“With those toothpicks? I find that unlikely.” Junhui snorts.

“He supervised and made sure we didn’t bump into anything while a different friend and I physically moved the couch,” he corrects.

“That sounds more like it.” He shifts his weight between feet uncertainly, not quite in the mood for conversation but also not quite in the mood to watch Soonyoung ingest his entire weight in alcohol in silence as Wonwoo does nothing to stop it. “We all went to high school together,” he decides on saying eventually.

“That’s fun,” Junhui says wistfully. “I don’t know anyone from my high school who goes here.”

“That sucks,” Jihoon states, followed by, “At least you made some friends, though.” He watches Soonyoung gulp down the final drops remaining in his last bottle to a chorus of hollering, and when he sees Wonwoo move forward to take the apparent victor into his arms, he decides he’s had enough of the indoor scene for the night. “I think I’m gonna go outside.”

“Oh,” Junhui hums, “I think I’ll go with you.”

When they turn to leave, Junhui rests his hand comfortably on Jihoon’s back, settles it down like it belongs, fans his fingers out to take up space. Even through the drunken shroud hazing his eyes, Soonyoung sees it, makes an uncharacteristically clear mental note of it as he watches them get eaten by the crowd, stirs it around in his liquor-soaked brain. “Look, Wonwoo,” he says, jabbing his finger out in what he’s trying his best to make a straight line. Wonwoo turns his head, and Soonyoung hopes they’re still visible, but he can’t see anymore on account of his eyes being closed. “Jihoon and Junhui.”

“Yeah, I see them.”

Soonyoung opens his eyes slowly and moves until his lips are brushing against Wonwoo’s ear. “Bet you twenty bucks they’ll be fucking by next month,” he whispers less than quietly, remarkably coherent considering how much he’s had to drink. If anyone around them cared to listen, they’d have no trouble hearing the details. Wonwoo just laughs.

“I would take that bet,” he says softly, “but I’m pretty sure you’re right, and I’m not giving up my hard earned money like that.”

Junhui is still trailing Jihoon when he comes back inside to collect Soonyoung hours later. They cross the threshold into the kitchen and find Soonyoung and Wonwoo both severely intoxicated and trying to play some sort of leapfrog or something that’s on a steady course to knock over the table. Jihoon is immensely glad that Junhui happened to come. Wonwoo is clearly in no state to be making snarky commentary on the intense beer pong game going on in the front lawn, and if Jihoon hadn’t had anyone to do that with him, he’s pretty sure he could and would have forced his own death into action through sheer willpower.

“Hey, you dick,” Jihoon barks at them from a few feet away, looking down like the disappointed and vaguely disgusted parent of a toddler who’s just tested out peanut butter as a form of face paint. “Get up. We’re going home.”

Soonyoung flops onto his back and dons a very pronounced frown, knocking the wind out of Wonwoo in the process. His eyes jump back and forth between Jihoon and Junhui for a solid minute and a half before he breaks into an oafish grin, teeth on display as intermittent giggles slip out. “Nex’ month,” he babbles, weakly slapping Wonwoo’s knee. Wonwoo glances their way for only a second before erupting into a fit of chuckles that spreads back to Soonyoung and makes his glasses slide off his nose. “Nex’ month,” Soonyoung repeats breathlessly, clutching at his stomach.

“Yeah,” Jihoon says, raising his eyebrows suspiciously. “That would be October.” Tears start squeezing out of the corners of Soonyoung’s eyes, and Jihoon is far too tired to be dealing with this. “Alright,” he says, lowering himself to heft Soonyoung up from the ground, “that’s enough. We’re going.” With one strong heave, they’re both up on their feet, though it’d be generous to pretend Soonyoung’s legs are doing any of the necessary work to support the man they’re attached to. He shuffles past Junhui with an unenthusiastic grunt. “Nice meeting you,” he says as he passes, nodding his head as much as he thinks he can without letting his burden of a roommate sink to the tile.

“Yeah, you too,” Junhui says absentmindedly as he watches Wonwoo squirm on the floor and accidentally ram his foot into one of the table’s legs. He tears his gaze away momentarily and fixes Jihoon with a warm smile that almost makes him want to smile back. “See you around.”

“Nnnnnnnex’ month,” Soonyoung echoes once more with a snort, and Jihoon sighs.

The next time Jihoon sees Junhui, it’s at one of the restaurants on campus the following Thursday. He’s just taken a seat at one of the tables toward the back when he spots Junhui in the cluster of people waiting for their orders to be filled. He isn’t really sure whether he’s within a close enough range to say hi without being excessively awkward or whether they know each other well enough to the point where saying hi is even something he should be expected to do, but he’s saved from having to make the decision when Junhui grabs his food and spots him immediately on turning around, waving enthusiastically and bustling over with a bright smile.

“Hey,” he says cheerfully as he inches toward the edge of the table. “Funny seeing you here.” He checks his left and right stiffly before asking, “Can I eat with you, or are you waiting on someone?”

“No, go nuts. I’m not waiting on anyone.” He scoots his food closer to himself on the tabletop, and Junhui takes the seat opposite him without hesitation, barely evading dropping his meal on the floor as he sinks into the chair.

“How was Soonyoung on Saturday night?” he asks before diving in to bite off a sizable chunk of his chicken sandwich.

“Oh, you know. He threw up three times, so the bee’s knees, basically.” He takes a sip of Sprite while he watches Junhui laugh quietly, taking note of just how contagious laughter can be.

“I let Wonwoo crash at my place, and it was about the same.” A light flickers behind his eyes when he catches sight of the textbook serving as Jihoon’s interim plate. “Oh, hey, are you in art history, too?” When Jihoon nods, he proceeds with, “Who’s your professor? What time do you have it?”

“Limmel at nine,” he answers, resisting the urge to point out the overabundance of questions. Junhui’s eyes look like they might pop out of his head.

“Seriously? We’re in the same section!” He rubs his chin pensively while he swallows, eyes shooting to the ceiling in thought. “I guess I just haven’t seen you since it’s a big class.”

“Well, you also didn’t know me before.”

“Fair point,” Junhui concedes with a thin smile. “Hey, we should sit together. I’ll save you a seat next time.”

“Sure,” Jihoon allows, because it’s not like he pays that much attention anyway. He may as well sit next to someone he can make comments to and help get the lecture over with more quickly.

“Alright, cool.” Junhui whips out his phone and flips it to the _Input Contact Information_ screen in a flash, sliding it over to Jihoon’s idle hands. “If you don’t mind, go ahead and put your number in so I can just tell you where I’m sitting and you don’t have to look.”

Jihoon’s never been a fan of just giving his number out to people, but he figures he might as well do it anyway. After all, if he can’t trust someone who made fun of plastered party attendees with him, who can he rely on? He types his number in carefully, making sure he doesn’t miss a digit, and the next day in class, neither of them pays attention to a single word their professor says.

“Impression, Sunrise,” Jihoon calls from his post at Junhui’s desk to the man lying face down on the bed. Junhui rolls over onto his back, eyes searching the ceiling for an answer. He holds one hand skyward and ticks his fingers down slowly, squinting his eyes like it’ll be right there if only he looks hard enough.

“I know this one,” he says at last. Jihoon would be more convinced if he had actually named the artist.

“Who is it, then?”

“The guy who did all the water lilies.” He thinks hard for a second before chancing a guess at the name. “Monet.”

“Good job.” Junhui raises a fist in victory and Jihoon snorts.

The midterm had seemed so far away at the beginning of the semester, but now it’s already crept up on them, an obnoxiously long matching game of paintings to artists to movements to places that neither of them is excited to deal with first thing in the morning on a Monday. Jihoon’s equal parts pissed that it’s on a Monday and that it’s not even really in the middle of the term, and while he typically would have forgone studying in protest, Junhui begged him to come over and he also doesn’t really want to fail a class like art history. He’d much rather fail something that counts, like differential equations or organic chemistry. Neither is a class he’ll have to take, but he’d theoretically be content to fail them.

“I think the paintings of the lilies are really pretty,” Junhui muses. “There’s, like, a lot of them. My art teacher in ninth grade always showed us pictures. Have you ever seen them?”

“Not to shit on your nostalgia parade,” Jihoon says in a monotone, flipping to the next notecard, “but Dr. Limmel probably isn’t going to ask whether you think the water lilies are pretty on the exam.”

“I know,” Junhui groans. “Ask me the next one.”

“The Persistence of Memory.”

“Dali,” Junhui says after a moment of thought.

“Starry Night.”

“Was I right?” Jihoon exhales impatiently.

“I’ll tell you when you’re wrong. Starry Night.”

“Da Vinci.” Jihoon eyes him suspiciously.

“The Night Watch.”

“Now, I know for _damn_ sure da Vinci was not right,” Junhui begins, “unless I’m just so hopeless that my wrong answers are actually correct.”

“No, it was wrong,” Jihoon assures him. Junhui sits up straight in outrage.

“You said you would tell me when I was wrong!” he cries, smacking his own leg.

“I will,” Jihoon promises, “but I knew you knew that was wrong. Everybody knows that Starry Night is by van Gogh.” Junhui rolls his eyes. “The Night Watch,” Jihoon repeats.

“Rembrandt.”

“Guernica.”

“Fuck Guernica,” Junhui spits. “I hate Guernica.”

“That’s great. Who painted it?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I hate it.”

“You don’t know?” Jihoon almost yells. “But this one is _so easy_.”

“That only makes me hate it more,” he says, sliding his eyes shut in frustration and leaning back into the wall. “Who is it?”

“Pi—”

“ _Picasso_ ,” he breathes angrily. “Shit, I totally knew that. Why did I forget?”

“I don’t know. The Umbrellas.”

“She’s making us learn too god damn many,” Junhui huffs in place of answering. “It doesn’t even make sense! There’s no organization. I bet at least half of them are impressionists.”

“The Umbrellas,” Jihoon says again brusquely.

“Jihoon, I don’t wanna study anymore,” Junhui whines. Jihoon sets the stack of flashcards on the desk and folds his hands in his lap.

“Are you just saying that because you don’t know the answer?”

“Of course I know the answer,” Junhui scoffs. “It’s Renoir.” He waits for Jihoon’s nod of approval before continuing. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’m tired of studying.”

“Okay.” Jihoon won’t pretend he’s not sick of it, too, but there are very few things more irritating than spending twenty minutes walking over to someone’s apartment only to spend thirty minutes there and have them tell you to leave. He pushes himself up from the chair in very apparent annoyance and hefts his bag from the floor. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Junhui says. “I mean, you just got here.” Jihoon shifts back and forth uncomfortably. “Well, if you’ve got somewhere to be, don’t let me hold you up. I’m just saying you don’t have to leave.”

“What else is there to do?’

“I don’t know,” Junhui says with a shrug. “I have Mario Kart 8 and leftover pizza.” Jihoon lets his bag hit the floorboards with a heavy thud.

This has to be the third or fourth time they’ve played Sweet Sweet Canyon because Junhui thinks it’s “the most aesthetically appealing track by far,” and Jihoon is tired of watching Baby Luigi careen off the edge of the track because Junhui refuses to steer him right. The pizza box sits empty on the floor between them, long since relieved of its day-old contents, and after Jihoon pulls Shy Guy across the finish line in a very strong first place, he glances over to find Junhui looking extremely unenthused about the task of having to actually get Baby Luigi across the line as well.

“You know,” Jihoon starts, snapping Junhui out of his daze, “for the one who suggested playing Mario Kart in the first place, you don’t seem too thrilled to be playing it.”

“Yeah,” Junhui sighs around a dry chuckle, setting the controller down and dooming Baby Luigi to the horrendous fate of driving over the edge infinitely until all the computers pass him and finish the race.

“Something you’d rather do than get demolished by my expert Mario Kart skills again?” Jihoon asks, raising his eyebrows. Junhui reclines himself on the ground, drawing his hand together atop his stomach before he speaks.

“Jihoon, I’m just gonna be straight with you,” he says, immediately bursting into a fit of hushed giggles once he’s gotten it out. “No, wait, that’s… the opposite of true. I’m going to be _direct_ with you.” Jihoon’s eyebrows arch a little higher at the correction.

“Where are you going with this, exactly?” Junhui sighs through a smile.

“Alright,” he breathes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten laid,”—and Jihoon is not inclined to believe it given Junhui’s unfair good looks and broad build, the way his mouth looks like it was made to be on someone else’s—“and I am very much attracted to you in a way that makes me wish I was getting laid, so I know this is kind of a weird thing to ask, but I think it would be swell if we could bang.”

Jihoon sits in stunned silence for a solid minute, waiting for Junhui to backtrack or for himself to wake up from a weird daydream or anything at all that will explain what he just heard, but nothing happens, just Junhui staring back at him expectantly. “You want me to have sex with you?” he manages finally.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a no-strings-attached kind of way, you know? Like, just friends who had sex.” Junhui massages his chin thoughtfully. “Feel free to say no. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of oats or whatever.”

“Cup of tea?” Jihoon asks, barking out one single laugh.

“Are you sure it’s not oats?” Junhui smiles warmly and pulls himself upright, dragging a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I just figured I’d ask.”

“Okay,” Jihoon says, and for a second he isn’t sure whether he’s conceding to the proposition or just acknowledging that Junhui figured he would ask. “I don’t have a problem with oatmeal.” Junhui raises his eyebrows, an amused smile stretching his lips.

It’s September 28th when they have sex for the first time. Somewhere, Soonyoung’s heart aches for the twenty dollars Wonwoo wisely refused not to give him.

“How’d you do on your exam?” Soonyoung asks on Friday, a knowing glint in his eyes and an unnerving wiggle in his eyebrows. Jihoon whips the packet out of his backpack and slides it across the countertop. Soonyoung tries to catch it smoothly, but his hand misses completely, leading it to glide clean off the other side and drop to the floor.

“Ninety-one,” Jihoon says proudly as Soonyoung bends to fetch it from the tiles.

“Nice,” he says leafing through the pages. “What, you didn’t know the Fifer was by Manet?” he says in outrage, looking over the top of the exam with disappointed eyes. “I’m ashamed.”

“Why the fuck do _you_ know that?” Jihoon asks, irritated. “Besides, I hate the Fifer.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you got it wrong.” He slaps the papers onto the table with unnecessary noisiness. “How did Junhui do?”

“I don’t know,” Jihoon mutters.

“Bullshit,” Soonyoung squawks. “He did better than you, didn’t he?”

“Ninety-three,” Jihoon grumbles, brimming with rage. Soonyoung erupts into a cacophonous howl of a laugh as Jihoon slams his clenched fist against the counter. “It’s garbage. We studied _together_.”

“I’m sure that’s not all you did together,” Soonyoung says suggestively, smug grin adorning his features. Jihoon freezes in his spot, eyes turning to daggers within a matter of moments.

“Excuse me?”

“Anyway, I gotta go,” Soonyoung says quickly, breezily, walking to the door with a nonchalance that says he’s not aware he’s said anything wrong but a speed which says he’s quite aware of having done so. “I promised Wonwoo I’d go see that movie about conspiracy theories with him, so we’re going to do that today.” He slips his shoes on cautiously, eyeing Jihoon for any sudden or unusual movement. “I’ll probably head back to his apartment afterward, so don’t wait up.”

He makes a swift exit, slamming the door behind him with a bang of finality, echoes of it ringing through the air for a good few seconds after he’s gone. Jihoon keeps his eyes fixed on the doorway for a while, eyebrows lowered and drawn together in a glare. _I’m sure that’s not all you did together_ , indeed. And what’s that supposed to mean? Jihoon could gag at the sheer audacity, no, the _hypocrisy_ of such a statement. Everybody and their mother knows he’s been trying to be quiet about shacking up with Wonwoo behind the scenes for the past seven months, and Jihoon’ll be damned if he’s going to let this slide. He has half a mind to call Junhui over right now and screw him in their apartment, right on the couch so there’s no way Soonyoung can avoid it. Jihoon only has to eye the couch cushions to gauge their relative comfort for mere moments before deciding that’s a bad idea, but he digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone anyway.

“Hey.” Junhui’s voice comes through the speakers with uncommon clarity, a subtle touch of confusion painted on top of each word. “What’s going on?”

“Are you free right now?” Jihoon suddenly feels weird about asking, weird for assuming Junhui would be willing to go for round two, but the hum in his ear dissipates it a little.

“Yeah,” Junhui says like he’s not really sure, breath coming in puffs. “I mean, I’m walking back to my apartment right now. Are you still on campus? Do you need something?” Jihoon listens to the muted sound of Junhui’s feet rhythmically pounding against the concrete through the line for a few seconds before answering.

“Do you wanna come over?” The sound of steps stops abruptly, and the crystalline silence floating between them is too sharp for Jihoon’s ears.

“Huh?”

“Do you want to come over?” Jihoon repeats even though he’s pretty certain Junhui heard him the first time. He doesn’t know why he feels so anxious.

“That’s what I thought you said.” Some sort of rustling sound crackles to Jihoon’s ears through the phone, but he can’t really tell what it is. Somehow, it eases his nerves. “Well,” Junhui says with a strong exhale, “I wish you would’ve called me sooner. I’m making eye contact with my apartment complex right now.”

“Your apartment complex has eyes?” Jihoon snorts. “That’s fucked up.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t notice them when you came over? Talk about fucked up.” Silence hangs between them for so long Jihoon would almost be sure he’d accidentally hung up if it weren’t for the occasional hushed breath coming from Junhui’s end.

“Well,” he says at last, “sorry to bother you. See you Monday.”

“Wait a second,” Junhui responds in a hurry, “I didn’t say I wouldn’t come over.” The backdrop of footsteps resumes while he talks, a little bit faster than before. “You need to send me the address again, though, because I think I only know the general area.”

“I’ll text it to you.”

“Awesome.” There’s a smile dancing in his tone. “Well, I’m gonna hang up because it’ll be embarrassing if you hear how out of breath I get walking around, but I’ll see you in, like, ten minutes.”

“I’ll send you the address,” Jihoon says, and when he hears a soft beep, he lowers the phone from his ear and begins typing.

A knock on the door comes just about ten minutes later, rousing Jihoon from the almost-nap he’d begun to fall into on the couch. Junhui’s face is bright pink when he opens the door, rosy from the rapidly cooling fall air and chill winds that have been known to blow through town with reckless abandon. He smiles with his teeth, big and bright and distracting, and it freezes Jihoon in the doorway.

“Hey,” Junhui says, hazarding intermittent glances to the inside of the apartment when Jihoon makes no indication he’ll be moving. “It’s kinda chilly out here,” he says at last, “so can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Jihoon mutters, shuffling aside. Junhui kicks his shoes off with zeal, shuffling over to the couch on thick socks. He shocks himself when he grabs the arm to sit down, and it almost makes Jihoon forget he’s still mad at Soonyoung.

“So what’s the occasion?” Junhui asks, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and retracting them immediately when Jihoon gives him a look that says he could die any moment.

“Soonyoung went to see a movie with Wonwoo,” he says, trying his best not to sound bitter, “so I thought it would be fun to hang out with you.”

“What movie are they seeing?”

“I don’t know. Something about conspiracy theories.” Junhui chuckles, shaking his head.

“That sounds about like them.” Maybe it’s the way Jihoon’s standing with his arms crossed and pointedly not taking a seat on the couch, or maybe it’s the way that his mouth is pressed into an unwavering frown, but whatever it is, it makes Junhui’s smile falter. “Are you angry?”

“What? No,” Jihoon denies unconvincingly. Junhui sits up straighter without warning, eyes growing wider by just enough to be noticeable.

“Is it because I got a better grade on the midterm?” He asks softly, voice teetering on the edge of fear. “I swear to god I guessed on more than half of them, Jihoon.”

“I said I’m not angry!” he huffs, and Junhui flings his arms in the air.

“Well, you seem pretty angry!” He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes suspiciously, cogs in his brain beginning to turn in lazy circles. “But if you’re mad, why did you ask me to come over?”

Jihoon flops onto the couch in defeat, eyes planted firmly on the ceiling. “Okay,” he concedes, “I’m mad—”

“I knew it!” Jihoon shoots him a menacing look and he presses his lips together promptly.

“I’m mad, but it’s _only_ because I was complaining to Soonyoung about how you got a higher grade even though we studied together,”—Junhui leans forward and bugs his eyes out, an unspoken _Is that not what I just said_ shining in them—“and then he said—do you wanna know what he said?” He flings his right hand around in a wide arc, nearly smacking Junhui with it. “He said, ‘I’m sure that’s not all you did together.’” Junhui strokes his chin in contemplation, closing one eye like that’ll help him understand better.

“Well,” he begins eventually, “he does know I have Mario Kart.” Jihoon releases an exasperated breath which he does not try to disguise. “What?”

“I can assure you he was not talking about Mario Kart.”

“Oh.” It’s almost bizarre how delayed realization is in hitting him, but Jihoon doesn’t think there’s any point in mentioning it. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Jihoon spits, “and sorry, but I’m not tolerating jabs like that from someone who’s been fucking Wonwoo on the down-low since March.” He turns his gaze to the sleeping television, seething. “The damn nerve of that asshole.”

“Well, I don’t know what I can do to help,” Junhui says, and once Jihoon tells him exactly what he can do to help, he follows with, “On the couch? That’s fucking gross.” He drums his fingers on the uncomfortable upholstery while he takes a closer look at it, running his tongue over his bottom lip in a way Jihoon is sure was designed to sidetrack. “And hilarious. I’m up for it.” Meeting Jihoon’s eyes again, he continues. “We better, like, play a board game or something after, though. I refuse to just be a tool for revenge sex.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jihoon allows, waving a hand dismissively. “We can order food or something. I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, _hell_ yes,” Junhui breathes. He slides a hand under Jihoon’s shirt without a moment’s hesitation.

It’s October 3rd when they have sex for the second time. Soonyoung would relish knowing that he’s the one who caused it.

Jihoon hadn’t really paid much attention the first time, but it becomes very apparent to him on time number two how well their bodies fit together. He’d thought it was just some weird sort of urban legend, finding someone where everything they do just feels right, but he can’t deny that something with Junhui is different than it had been with others in the past. He finds himself thinking that bodies are so strange, awkward connections of angles and slopes covered by skin both tacky and dry, and it’s strange how two bodies together can almost feel like one body, almost feel like parts interchangeable so long as they’re pressed together in enough spots.

“Hey,” Junhui pants, resting his hands on Jihoon’s back and spreading out his fingers. “I’ve got an idea.” He’s doing his best to explain despite not having quite enough breath. “That ridge over the seam… where the cushions meet… If we could… get that on your thighs…” Jihoon doesn’t pay attention to the rest.

They order take-out from the Chinese place a few blocks over, digging in voraciously when it arrives. The couch is less disturbed than Jihoon expected it to be, but the other traces are undeniable. The living room positively reeks of sex even after ample Febreze and the aroma of food to diffuse it, and Jihoon’s wearing shorts that blatantly showcase the line marked on his thighs at Junhui’s explicit instruction.

“So,” Junhui says midway through his helping of pork, “what now? Do you guys have Stratego? I love Stratego.”

“Actually, I think the only board game we have is Clue.” Jihoon ponders as he watches Junhui’s face fall. “But we do have Wreck-It Ralph, if you’re okay with watching that.”

“Hell yes, I’m okay with watching that.” He sets his chopsticks down on the table and tucks his knees under his chin, eyes glittering. “Pop that sucker in, Jihoon.”

At the same time Ralph’s gargantuan fist comes [crashing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30L753c3TYU) down into the little candy kart, Jihoon hears a very audible sniff that doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the television’s speakers. He turns his head to find Junhui’s face pressed into his hands, colors from the screen reflecting too brightly in his irises even in the darkness of the room. He sniffs again, quieter this time, and Jihoon thinks he can make out droplets of water trailing from the corners of his eyes.

“Are you seriously crying?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Junhui shoots back immediately, dabbing at the wet spots on his face with his t-shirt. “It’s sad. Just look at her, Jihoon!” He throws an arm at the weeping form of Vanellope with vigor, shaking his hand wildly for emphasis. “She’s devastated! She trusted him!”

“You have seen this movie before, right?” Jihoon asks dubiously, quirking an eyebrow. “Everything is gonna be okay.”

“I know that,” Junhui sighs, pulling his arm back in to clutch his legs, “but that doesn’t make it any less sad.” He spares a glance in Jihoon’s direction, eyes narrowed and highly suspect. “I can’t believe you’re _not_ crying. Don’t you have a soul?”

“I have one when I need one,” he says smoothly, and Junhui scoffs.

Junhui cries three more times before the movie is over (“Not a word,” he says each time), and once they’re through watching, they flip to the regular channels and start watching the Food Network. Jihoon is too lazy to get up and turn the lights back on, so he just sits in the dark and listens to Junhui make overly invested comments about the marathon of Throwdown with Bobby Flay that seems to be in progress.

“He’s, like, the biggest asshole in the world for even doing this show,” Junhui grumbles. “The entire concept is just that he’s a douche.”

“Well, we don’t have to watch it,” Jihoon informs him. “I’m sure there are cartoons or something on.”

“No. I want to see him lose.” Junhui drops his voice to a whisper. “He deserves to lose.”

The amount of time that elapses doesn’t even occur to Jihoon until the door swings wide open and Soonyoung parades in, light from one of the streetlamps outside streaming in with him. He flicks on the lights in a display of complete disregard for the feelings of his friends in the dark, and Junhui lets out a shrill screech at the sudden blindness thrust upon him that makes Soonyoung jump so high he almost hits his head on the top of the doorframe.

“Jesus!” he cries. “What is Junhui doing here?”

“What do you mean, what is he doing here?” Jihoon asks with a scoff. “We were hanging out.”

“Hanging out by watching TV in the dark at 2 in the morning?” Outrage drops from Soonyoung’s features and is replaced with regular rage when he spots the screen. “Is that goddamn Bobby Flay?”

“Yes,” Junhui hisses. Soonyoung strides over to sit between them on the couch, directly over the raised cushion edge chaffed onto Jihoon’s legs. “I think he’s about to lose,” Junhui follows with glee.

“Whoa, Jihoon, that’s some crazy rug burn,” Soonyoung mumbles low enough that only Jihoon can hear it, reaching out tentatively to touch the nearly-straight dark red line running from leg to leg.

 It’s sensitive when his fingertips graze against it, and Jihoon almost winces, but he doesn’t, because it’s at this moment that Soonyoung sniffs, inhaling a nice, big whiff of the air that Jihoon is very sure still smells. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Soonyoung breathes in again, a few smaller, quicker sniffles now, attempting to confirm what his brain already knows is true. When he glances at the impression on Jihoon’s legs again, he tries not to let his eyes widen, but Jihoon’s known him for too long not to see it, and Soonyoung presses his lips into a line as he turns back to face the TV. Jihoon does his best to suppress a smirk, but his best isn’t quite good enough. He knows Soonyoung can see it.

A loud whoop startles them out of their miniature cold war as Junhui rises jubilantly. “’Fuck you, Bobby!” he hollers, jabbing his raised middle finger at the screen. He raises both hands to the heavens in rejoice, completely oblivious to the silent and passive mental showdown going on between his two companions. After a few minutes of Junhui celebrating alone, too consumed by his own bliss to notice that he’s the only one who really cares, Soonyoung slaps his knees and stands.

“Well, I think I’m gonna hit the hay,” he says stiffly, pointedly avoiding looking at either of them. Jihoon yawns when he hears the word _hay_ , so he figures he probably ought to go to bed as well.

“I guess I’ll head home,” Junhui says with a stretch. “See you guys later.”

“No, it’s late. You should sleep here,” Jihoon offers. “You can sleep on the couch. I’ll let you borrow a blanket.” Junhui raises his eyebrows uncertainly, opens his mouth like he wants to say something, closes it when he glances at Soonyoung’s departing frame. “It’s got a pullout mattress and the sheets are already on it,” Jihoon assures him softly, and Junhui visibly relaxes. A smile fights its way to Jihoon’s face against little resistance.

“I’m pretty sure Soonyoung noticed,” Junhui whispers once Soonyoung is out of the room, voice low.

“Just like I wanted him to,” Jihoon states proudly, head bobbing in a pleased nod. “We’ll see him try to talk shit again.” Junhui laughs louder than he probably should.

“Thanks for letting me stay over.”

“No problem.”

Soonyoung is still standing around in the bathroom after Jihoon’s fetched the spare blanket and changed into his sleepwear. His fighting spirit is extremely evident on his face, and Jihoon just knows he’ll wait until the precise moment he starts brushing his teeth to say anything, so he draws it out obnoxiously long, unscrewing the cap of the toothpaste tube like he hasn’t got anywhere to be for the rest of his life and squeezing it out carefully, intent on getting the same amount atop each bristle. Soonyoung’s foot is tapping impatiently by the time he finishes, but he’s adamant on not leaving until he says his piece.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks in a harsh whisper the very moment the toothbrush makes contact with Jihoon’s teeth. Jihoon sighs. “On the couch?”

“Is there a problem?” Jihoon asks around a mouthful of toothpaste. He can see that Soonyoung is making angry eyes at him in the mirror, but he refuses to look into them.

“I have to _sit_ there, Jihoon! You knew that and you just… defiled it!”

“Maybe you should have considered that before you made a jab at _me_ for doing something we both know damn well you do very regularly.” He chooses now to look at Soonyoung’s face, and the way his jaw has dropped is the best thing he’s seen in weeks.

“That’s what this is about?” He throws his hands up in disbelief. “You were mad at me for accusing you of fucking Junhui—which you did do, I might point out—so you called him over and fucked him on our couch?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t fuck someone else on our couch and invite him over after, if that’s the alternative theory.”

“Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you?” Jihoon shrugs and spits out his toothpaste, and while he rinses his mouth out, he watches Soonyoung’s fury change to satisfaction with a quickness both suspicious and alarming. “Oh well. At least I was right!” He prances out of the room before Jihoon has a chance to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, and by the time he climbs into bed, he’s already brainstorming ways to get him back. When he wakes up, he’s already forgotten that he has to get him back.

It’s October 25th and Jihoon doesn’t know how many times they’ve had sex because he hasn’t been counting. All he knows is that it’s probably a great deal more than either of them initially intended, and he’s right in the middle of thinking that it’s strange how Junhui’s body can look so nice littered with purplish blemishes when Junhui sits up and stretches his arms toward the ceiling, back arching in a delicate curve. Jihoon thinks it’s strange that muscles moving under skin can seem like so much more than muscles moving under skin.

“Hey, Jihoon,” Junhui says suddenly, leaning back on his elbows. “Can I tell you something that’s kind of been on my mind?”

It’s a Saturday morning, and they’re both in Junhui’s bed for reasons Jihoon can’t quite remember. He accidentally ended up spending the night on Friday because he accidentally ended up staying way later than he intended because he wasn’t sure if they were going to have sex or marathon One Piece and they accidentally ended up doing both. He isn’t sure why he’s not on the couch, but the mattress is comfortable even if he knows the sheets aren’t as clean as they smell.

“Go nuts.” There are birds chirping somewhere outside the window, and Jihoon is pretty sure it’s a little too cold for them to still be around. He’s also jealous—there are never any birds hanging out around his window. When he hears how they refuse to shut up, though, he grows substantially less envious.

“I’d be willing to bet you haven’t heard this before,” Junhui begins, “but I think you have the nicest body I’ve ever seen.” Jihoon’s not sure whether he should be offended or flattered, or whether he should ask Junhui if he’s ever seen himself shirtless in the mirror, so he just raises his eyebrows in question. Junhui smiles in place of further explanation.

“Well,” Jihoon starts after a while, “if you think it’s so great, why are you assuming I haven’t heard that before?” Junhui shrugs the best shrug someone can do when reclined on elbows, and Jihoon has to bite back a laugh because he looks so unbelievably stupid.

“It’s just not really what someone would stereotypically think of if you told them to picture a nice body, I think,” he explains, “but I think it’s really something.” He’s not making much sense, but Jihoon guesses he may as well take compliments when he gets them.

“Thanks, I guess,” he says, then, “You’re not so bad yourself.” Junhui laughs something that sounds more like music than laughter and drops from his elbows to his back.

“Thanks.”

A few days into November, Jihoon is sitting at Starbucks trying to make some headway on a paper that he knows he won’t be able to get done with Soonyoung playing Just Dance 2015 in the living room, and before he’s even noticed it’s occurring, there’s an uncommonly handsome man sitting in the seat opposite him. Jihoon only spares him a glance before turning his focus back to his computer, but the guy doesn’t take that as a hint to leave.

“Hi,” he says suddenly, flashing a smile so dazzling even the whiteness of the almost completely blank document opened on Jihoon’s computer screen seems dull in comparison. His hands are clasped on the table in a fashion that seems to always be done by people who are ten levels beyond regular annoying.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Well, I was just sitting over on the other side of the café,” the stranger begins, and Jihoon believes he has misheard the question, “and I noticed you sitting over here, so I thought I’d come say hello.”

“Well, I’m writing an essay right now,” Jihoon informs him, the most polite way he can think to say “please fuck off,” but the guy remains undeterred. Either he thinks essays aren’t that important or he doesn’t care if he causes someone to get a shitty mark on one, and neither is a quality Jihoon is very fond of.

“I’m Mingyu,” he discloses, completely unsolicited.

“That’s great,” Jihoon deadpans, “but as I mentioned, I’m writing an essay, so if you could leave me to it, that’d be swell.”

“I guess we’ll just have to talk a different time,” Mingyu hums. “How about we get dinner tomorrow?” Jihoon’s eyes widen against his will.

“Uh…”

“Wait,” Mingyu says, smile slipping from his lips, “are you already seeing someone else?”

“I mean…” Jihoon licks his lips cautiously. “No.” Mingyu relaxes visibly, face splitting once more in a grin.

“Great.” His phone is in Jihoon’s face in a flash. “Just put your number in and I’ll give you a call later.” Jihoon wonders if he can just ignore the hand thrust before him and continue writing, but unfortunately, the phone is big and blocking most of his vision, and if he ducks around it to see what he’s typing, it’ll be all too much like he’s not ignoring it. He snatches the device and punches his number in carelessly to end the interaction as quickly as possible, and by the time he gets back to the sentence he was in the middle of writing, he doesn’t remember how it’s supposed to end.

“I got asked on a date today,” he tells Soonyoung that evening, and he tries not to be offended when Soonyoung spits his water out into the sink.

“You’re lying,” he accuses. “Why would you lie about that?”

“Yes, Soonyoung, why _would_ I lie about that?” He sighs, rocking back on the stool as far as it’ll let him without tipping over. “Anyway, he was really good-looking, but he seems obnoxious. I’m only going under the assumption that he’ll be buying my meal.”

“Have you told Junhui?”

“I mean, I haven’t seen him, so no.” Soonyoung raises his eyebrows but drops them back down as soon as he notices he’s doing it. “What, why’d you do that?” he asks, but Soonyoung’s lips remain sealed as ever. “Soonyoung, tell me—”

He’s cut off by the sound of his phone ringing, that irritating default ringtone that he can’t be bothered to get rid of no matter how much it makes him want to claw his eyes out. When he spies an unknown number on the display, he has a gut feeling the phone call he’s about to have will make him want to claw his eyes out, too.

“This must be him right now,” he thinks aloud, and Soonyoung cracks into a broad smile.

“Have a nice chat,” he calls as he races for the door. Jihoon knows it’s only because he’s sure he won’t be pursued, and it pisses Jihoon off that he still doesn’t have the energy to follow him. “See you later!” He slams the door at the same time Jihoon swipes to accept the call.

Mingyu is waiting for him outside the restaurant the following night, and it’s so cold that he’s got to be an idiot to be standing out there even if it is “considerate” or whatever, especially since Jihoon shows up twelve minutes late on purpose. He smiles giddily when he spies Jihoon walking up, and it momentarily sends a pang of guilt through him, but that disappears when he remembers how very little progress he ended up making on his essay.

“Evening,” Mingyu says cordially, pulling the door open and ushering Jihoon inside. “You look good.”

“Oh, do I?” Jihoon asks warily, stepping into the heated foyer. He doesn’t think he looks particularly special. After all, he didn’t really do more than throw on a regular outfit. It’s probably the coat—it’s a really nice one his grandma got him for Christmas, and he never wears it, so it makes him look nice and spiffy even when he knows he’s still grungy on the inside.

“Yeah,” Mingyu confirms, “but maybe that’s just because you’re good-looking.”

Jihoon’s chest gets a little tight; even though looking at Mingyu still gives him the inkling of a headache, he’s not used to being flirted with so boldly, and something about the foreignness of it isn’t unwelcome. When he takes another look at Mingyu, he gets the bizarre sense that he’s not seeing the right face, like Mingyu’s not the one he ought to be looking at, but he pushes it down without giving himself a chance to understand why.

Dinner doesn’t go as poorly as he’d been expecting. Mingyu’s got a lot more hidden charm than his initial approach had implied, and when he foots the bill, Jihoon hasn’t got a single regret about showing up, though he does feel a tiny stab of guilt about using Mingyu for free food even if his essay progress was momentarily inconvenienced.

“So,” Mingyu says as they walk at a leisurely pace toward Jihoon’s apartment, “is there any chance I could get a second date?”

“Maybe.” Bitterly cold wind whips at Jihoon’s cheeks while they stroll, and he’s a lot more focused on getting home than he is on entertaining the possibility of a second date. Considering the hopeful look on Mingyu’s face, he should probably feel a little bad about it, but the fact that he doesn’t leads him to tack on, “A very miniscule one.”

“How about maybe Friday?” he asks rather optimistically, and Jihoon keeps back a sigh that his lips are dying to let go free.

“Maybe,” he repeats.

Soonyoung wastes no time in pestering Jihoon once he gets back, firing questions rapidly from the very moment he walks through the door. He begins the barrage with, “How was it?” then continues on to, “Did you have fun? Did he pay? Are you gonna go out with him again? Are you in love? Are you going to tell… I mean, when do I get to meet him?” Jihoon narrows his eyes in suspicion, particularly on the last question, but he neglects to answer the majority of them.

“I might see him again on Friday,” is all he says, and Soonyoung wiggles his eyebrows wildly.

Friday morning comes quickly, and Jihoon doesn’t have on a thing on his mind when he sits down next to Junhui in the art history lecture. He both feels like he is and isn’t keeping a secret when he remembers Soonyoung asking if he’s told him about Mingyu yet, and he’s certain it’ll just be awkward if he brings it up because he has no reason to bring it up, so he doesn’t.

“Jihoon,” Junhui says very seriously as he takes his seat, “I’ve taken a look at the television guide for this fine Friday, and you will never believe what’s airing.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” Jihoon replies drowsily. “Blow my mind, Junhui.”

“A Chopped marathon, Jihoon.” He sweeps his arm in a wide arc in front of himself, waving his fingers for effect. “Think about it. All those boxes, all those mystery ingredients just waiting to be revealed, all those cash prizes to be probably not actually won.”

“God dammit,” Jihoon grunts, flinging his hands in the air. “How am I supposed to pay attention in class now that I know about all the excitement awaiting me later?”

“You’ll be able to pay even less attention once I tell you the marathon has already begun.”

“Jesus,” Jihoon says, turning his eyes to the board to survey all of the nothing that’s happening there. “I can’t believe we’re missing it.”

“We don’t have to be missing it.”

Jihoon turns to make eye contact with Junhui and finds him wearing a very odd smirk on his face. For a while, all they do is look at each other, and when there’s only a minute remaining before the advent of the class hour, they rise from their seats and start on a path toward Jihoon’s apartment.

Jihoon conveniently forgets that he invited Mingyu to come over until he hears a knock at the door at around six in the evening. Of course Soonyoung couldn’t have been kind enough to remind him when he got home and found him and Junhui sitting on the couch together, deeply absorbed in watching Chopped; then again, he might have said something, but Jihoon was so absorbed in watching Chopped that he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Hey,” Mingyu says excitedly when he answers the door, but his smile wavers when he spots Junhui on the couch inside. “Is that your roommate?”

“Oh, no,” Jihoon says, sparing a glance back. “My roommate isn’t here right now. That’s Junhui.” Mingyu’s expression dampens significantly, but Jihoon just ushers him inside with haste. “Come on in, we’re watching Chopped.”

“Hey,” Junhui calls as he watches Mingyu shuffle awkwardly to sit next to Jihoon on the end of the couch. “I’m Junhui. Nice to meet you.”

“Mingyu,” he says with a stiff nod, taking a seat on the cushion and looking a lot more uncomfortable than he needs to look.

“We met at Starbucks the other day,” Jihoon explains. He neglects to mention that they went on a date and also that he forgot Mingyu was coming over, instead opting to immerse himself once again in the show. The wild card ingredient this round is durian, and no amount of Mingyu being awkward will deter him from seeing how the dishes unfold.

“Shit,” Junhui almost shouts a few hours later as he watches one of the contestants sprint to grab an emergency tomato. “I just remembered I was supposed to go grocery shopping today, so I probably better head out.” He rises swiftly and scurries to get his shoes on, lacing them up in such a rush the knots almost come untied again immediately. “See you later, Jihoon.”

The door isn’t closed behind him for five minutes before Mingyu diverts his gaze from the television completely. “You lied to me, didn’t you?” he accuses. Jihoon’s attention is split about 80/20 between the show and Mingyu respectively, so his brain doesn’t catch up to the words for at least a full minute.

“What?” he manages at last, tearing his gaze away from the screen, where one of the chefs is fucking up her duck so badly it’s laughable. Junhui would have a conniption.

“You lied,” Mingyu reiterates. “When you said you weren’t seeing anyone. You’re dating that guy, right?”

“Who, Junhui?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu spits. “You’re just stringing me along, aren’t you?”

“No, he’s just… a friend.” Jihoon finds it wise not to mention at this moment that he banged that very friend on the same couch upon which they are seated little more than a month ago.

“Don’t toy with me, Jihoon. I’m not stupid.” His eyes are searching Jihoon’s face, but Jihoon hasn’t the faintest clue what they’re looking for. Mingyu doesn’t even look like he knows what they’re looking for.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Jihoon sighs. “I’m not dating him, and I’m not lying.”

“Sure,” Mingyu hisses through his teeth. “I think I’m going to leave now.” He gathers himself swiftly and stalks over to the door, kicks his shoes on violently, grabs the doorknob with a white knuckle grip. “See you,” he says brusquely, and before Jihoon can even think whether he wants to make an argument, he’s gone. As Jihoon sits watching Chopped alone, he finds himself wishing Junhui was still around.

Soonyoung doesn’t bother asking if he’ll ever get to meet Mingyu when he gets home from Wonwoo’s the following afternoon, and that could either be because Jihoon doesn’t say anything about it or because he’s on his way out the door himself to go to Junhui’s. Zootopia’s on Netflix, and Jihoon is certain Junhui’s going to cry when Nick has his [flashback](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDUbwwidW4w). He’s right.

“I was thinking about going home this weekend,” Junhui tells him on Tuesday night. He’s sitting on Junhui’s couch flipping through a magazine, and there’s not one reason he can’t be doing that at his own apartment, but he’s here anyway. His eyes jump from the article he’s reading about soap to Junhui’s cautious face.

“Oh, really?” he asks. “That’ll be fun.” He tries not to sound let down about how that means no sex over the weekend—rather, he tries not to _feel_ let down about it. What is he, dependent? Rationally, he’s got no reason to feel down about it aside from how routines are so easy to establish and he’s always been unwilling to stray from them.

“Yeah,” Junhui agrees. “I think you would like it there.” He twirls a pen in circles with his fingers, and suddenly Jihoon can’t look away from it. He’s got nice fingers in a lot of ways. “It’s only about two hours away from here. You should come with me, if you want.”

“I have an exam on Monday.” And it’s true. If he doesn’t study, there’s a good chance he won’t do well; the amount of time he spends doodling on his notes and the amount of time he spends listening to the professor are divided, roughly 90/10, and he’s barely sure what class he’s even taking.

“Maybe next time, then.”

“No,” Jihoon says airily, flipping his magazine closed. “I’ll go.”

Friday afternoon, they pack themselves into Junhui’s car and get on the road as soon as Jihoon’s gotten out of his last class. The car is kind of old and a little dinged up, fender and bumper both sporting nice dents while the black paint on the hood is chipping away, but it runs more smoothly than Jihoon expects it to and the seats are soft leather that’s cold on his legs when he sits down. He wonders what it would be like to have sex on the back seat and if he’ll ever get the chance to know.

The drive feels more like fifteen minutes than two hours. Junhui’s radio doesn’t work well enough for them to hear more than eight continuous seconds of any song, and the only CD’s he has are weird folk bands Jihoon’s never heard of. Jihoon snorts when he yodels along to every single word that comes out of the car’s speakers, album after album, and even though his window doesn’t stay up all the way and he’s getting blasted in the face by frigid wind, he thinks he wouldn’t mind if the car ride were a little longer.

Trees line all the streets of Junhui’s hometown, clinging to the last of their beautifully dyed leaves with desperation. Jihoon admires them as they drive through, going up and down peaceful lanes and avenues until they pull into a quiet cove and slide into a driveway he can only assume is Junhui’s. The brisk air nips at Jihoon’s fingers when they climb out of the vehicle, and they’re numb by the time they’re halfway to the front door. He considers sticking his hands in Junhui’s pockets since he has none of his own, but he decides against it.

“Hello?” Junhui calls timidly, pushing open the already unlocked door. “Mom?” Jihoon follows him inside warily, treading as lightly as possible on the worn hardwood; he’s not sure why he thinks he shouldn’t make any noise.

The halls yawn as they walk through, vacant and muted. Everything in the house is dull white, clean in a dusty kind of way, and Jihoon feels like if he tried to speak it might get drowned out by the overwhelming silence and the drab carpet, so he doesn’t attempt it. Instead, he keeps his attention on the walls, adorned with sparse photographs on Junhui in various stages of youth: on a bike and can’t be older than ten; hands covered in red paint and slapping madly at a canvas, probably about three; cleaned up in a tuxedo, or at least the fake top half of one that studios use, for his senior pictures. There’s a sort of guilt in looking at them, like he’s gazing with binoculars from miles away at someone who has no hope of looking back.

“There you are,” Junhui says finally, and Jihoon never expected to find his voice so welcome on his ears. They round the corner to what seems to be the master bedroom and find a woman who can’t be anyone but Junhui’s mother sprawled on the bed, dozing off as she watches the news on the screen of a TV that’s way too small to be that far away. Her eyes pop open the second she spots them in the doorway, and she springs to her feet so quickly Jihoon wouldn’t have thought she was just fighting off sleep.

“Junhui!” Her face crinkles when she smiles in the same way Junhui’s does, and it warms Jihoon up a little inside. “You should have told me you were coming home, I would have made dinner!”

“No, it’s okay,” Junhui says, pulling her into a tight hug. “Have you already eaten?”

“I have,” she says sadly, patting his back. Jihoon stands a few awkward feet away, watching the reunion unfold and feeling very much like an intruder. She blinks and notices Jihoon for the first time, backing out of her son’s arms. “Hello there. Who is this?”

“Oh, this is Jihoon. He’s a friend of mine from school.” Junhui turns around to give him a big grin that’s probably meant to be reassuring, but Jihoon’s too distracted by how similar they look to feel reassured.

“Nice to meet you,” Jihoon says stiffly, extending a hand. Junhui’s mom’s hands are warm and bony when they envelop his, and they start to put some of the feeling back in his fingers.

“I think I have some leftovers in the fridge,” she begins uncertainly, “but probably not enough for both of you. I don’t really have to make as much these days…”

“That’s okay,” Junhui confirms with a thumbs up. “I was planning on taking him to that diner on Lucy anyway. The one we always used to go to.”

“Ah,” she says, immediately followed by a heavy exhale that melts into a yawn. “Well, I might be asleep when you get back. I had a long day at work today.” She rubs drowsiness from her eyes with the heels of her hands, and Jihoon is mostly sure he’s seen Junhui do it that exact same way a number of times. “We can do something tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Junhui allows. “Just get some sleep. We’ll see you later.”

The diner on Lucy is not only a diner on Lucy, but to Jihoon’s surprise, its actual name is Diner on Lucy. He blinks a few times slowly to make sure he’s not just imagining things, but there the sign remains, big and stupid-looking, the “on Lucy” tacked on almost like an afterthought, like the owner only realized after having it made that he couldn’t just call his restaurant _Diner_. There’s kind of a sour smoky smell drifting into Jihoon’s nostrils when Junhui pulls into one of the spaces in the tiny parking lot, and as much as he tries to ignore it, his nose scrunches in protest.

“I know,” Junhui sighs as he locks the car. “Don’t worry, it smells fine inside.”

He’s right. The inside of the diner is somewhat dingy, like the worn-down outside led Jihoon to believe, yellowing tiles and sticky red vinyl booths, but it smells clean, and Junhui promises as they slide into one of the booths that the food is really good. Jihoon gets a burger, and maybe it’s just because he was hungrier than he realized, but it’s in the top ten best things he’s ever eaten.

“My mom used to bring me here all the time in high school,” Junhui says, dragging a fry through a small pool of ketchup. “There was a girl who worked here that she really wanted me to date.”

“Did you ever date her?”

“I mean,” he pops the fry into his mouth and starts chewing, “no.” He picks up another and repeats the same process. Jihoon is fascinated at how he manages to get so much ketchup on one single fry. “We went on one date once, but as it turns out, we’re both gay.” He shrugs, a goofy smile crossing his features. “Funny how things are like that, I guess.”

“What did your mom say?”

“I don’t remember. We still kept coming here after that, though.” The ketchup has been exhausted, but there are still a few fries remaining on Junhui’s plate, so he squeezes a little more out to keep them company.

“Look, why don’t you just drink it?” Junhui looks between Jihoon and the ketchup bottle quietly before responding, eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry, are you perhaps insinuating that I use too much ketchup?”

“I mean, if the shoe fits.”

“You know what? I think you’re just jealous because if we were competing against each other on Chopped and ketchup was one of the secret ingredients, I would kick your ass.”

“What exactly does that have to do with the amount of ketchup you eat?”

“Everything, Jihoon.” He smiles slyly, plopping the last fry in his mouth and rising from his seat. “Absolutely everything.”

As predicted, Junhui’s mother is asleep when they arrive back at the house, all the lights shut off but the fluorescent bulbs in the kitchen. Junhui leads the way up the stairs, stepping lightly over thin carpet until they arrive at his bedroom. He pushes the door open slowly, drawing out an obnoxious creak, and flips the lights on.

It looks well-kept, and Jihoon doesn’t know whether that’s Junhui’s doing or retroactive tidying on his mom’s part; given the way Junhui’s room at his apartment looks, he figures it’s probably the second thing. There’s a twin bed pushed into the corner with a squat little bookshelf beside it and a reading lamp on top, though Jihoon’s never taken Junhui as the type to read books for fun. Most commanding, though, is the walls.

They’re covered in printed out pictures of Monet’s water lilies, all different. There’s at least ten or twelve on each wall, taped up carefully so that they line up together and almost seem like one cohesive work from a distance. Jihoon lets out a low whistle as Junhui crosses to take a seat on his bed.

“Big fan of Monet, I see,” he muses softly. Junhui chuckles.

“I told you I like the water lilies,” he says slyly. Then his shoulders droop. “My only regret is taping them up, because now they’re stuck unless I want to ruin the paint. And I do not, because my mom would kill me.” He just stares at Jihoon for another minute, then brightens back into a smile and holds up two fingers, wriggling them for emphasis. “So, here’s a segue: you have two options in the way of sleeping.” Jihoon waits for him to divulge said options, but it doesn’t happen. Eventually, he continues with, “Would you like to hear them?”

“I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“You’re standing.”

“Just tell me what they are, jackass.”

“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat and lowering one finger. “Firstly, you can sleep in my bed with me, which, as you can see, is not very large, so we’d probably have to spoon. Or,” he bumps his fists together, transferring the finger to the other hand, “you can sleep on the couch, which is a little bit stiff and my mom might wake you up in the morning, and I also don’t know where she keeps the extra blankets anymore, so I’d have to lend you several small ones to use.” Jihoon narrows his eyes despite the subtlety with which his lips begin to curve upward.

“This information seems a little skewed, don’t you think?” Jihoon asks.

“How so?” Junhui looks like he knows exactly how.

“Based on the amount of cons for each,” Jihoon ponders aloud, “it seems like you’re trying to get me in bed with you.”

“Take it however you want, Jihoon,” Junhui hums in a manner Jihoon finds highly suspect. “I’m just telling you your options.” Jihoon’s lips crease in a firm line while he thinks.

“I’ll go with you in your bed, I guess,” he says at last. If the couch here is anything like the one in his and Soonyoung’s apartment, there’s no way he’ll catch a single Z if he tries to sleep on it; besides, the mention of spooning piqued his interest, tugged at his brain and chest in a way he’s sure it shouldn’t have if all they are is friends. He pretends not to take that into account.

“Splendid.” He leans back on his arms and levels his gaze. “Well, I was just telling you in advance. We don’t have to go to bed yet.” His eyes are twinkling with a knowing light when Jihoon looks into them.

The heat isn’t quite as strong in the upstairs, and Jihoon’s skin prickles with goosebumps everywhere as soon as he’s got his clothes off. The comforter is cold when he rests his knee on it, mattress caving easily as he puts his full weight on the bed. Junhui puts his hands on Jihoon’s hips when he straddles him, and it doesn’t make any sense for his palms to be so hot when the room is so cold.

“We have to be quiet,” he mutters against Jihoon’s skin when he leans in to press his lips against his collarbone. Jihoon loves when he does that. “If my mom wakes up because she hears us having sex, I’m gonna die on the spot for real.”

It’s November 14th when they have sex in a bed that Junhui hasn’t slept in for months. Soonyoung has long since stopped caring, but if someone were to tell him about it, he wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Jihoon looks back and forth between the images of water lilies on the walls and Junhui so much that he starts to mix up which is real life and which is just a painting. In some ways, the way Junhui’s limbs connect, the way his back bends and sweat gleams on his skin, is worlds more interesting to look at than floating flowers at sunrise. His body might be as close to art as bodies can get, and Jihoon wishes Monet were still around to do it justice. He feels like he lucked out, getting to touch art like this, and then he realizes that’s probably not something friends should think about each other, so he stops thinking it.

When they drive home on Sunday afternoon, Jihoon wishes again that the drive could last a little longer. All of the trees that still retained a few leaves on Friday are bare now, final ounces of resolve swept away by the bitter winds ravaging the landscape. Junhui chooses to bombard him with questions this time around instead of howling along to the reedy voice of the lead singer of whatever band it is whose CD’s he seems to own exclusively. He asks if Jihoon liked it there at least twelve times, to which Jihoon consistently says yes, and then he’ll always say in return something like, “It’s so peaceful, isn’t it?” or “All the gardens look really pretty in spring.” He’s doing a great job of making Jihoon want to see them.

“Have a nice weekend?” Soonyoung asks the moment he’s back in the door and pulling his shoes off. He and Wonwoo sit on the couch together, jointly clutching a large bowl of popcorn and watching Desperate Housewives. Jihoon groans when he gets a look at the TV.

“It was great,” he says blandly. “Please tell me you two did _anything_ besides watch this filth all weekend.” The way they glance at each other tells Jihoon the only other thing they did was something he’d rather not hear details about.

“You don’t get to judge _us_ when all you and Junhui ever watch is Chopped,” Wonwoo calls, stuffing a handful of popcorn in his mouth.

“Don’t I?” he asks. “At least Chopped is entertaining. Nothing ever happens in this show.” Both occupants of the couch gasp in very real offense, and Soonyoung angrily chucks a coaster that would have hit the television were it not for Jihoon’s impeccable reflexes.

“You shut your goddamn mouth,” Soonyoung hisses. “This is the episode where Edie dies, Jihoon. And you have the nerve…”

“Wisteria Lane just wasn’t the same after Dave got there,” Wonwoo says thoughtfully and a little bit too seriously. “We need that man off our streets.”

“It’s a fake street, Wonwoo.”

“Jihoon,” Soonyoung sighs, “if you’re just gonna shit on the fun, why did you even bother coming back?”

“Where else am I gonna go if I want to shit on your fun?” They groan in unison.

“Go study for your exam,” Soonyoung commands. “I know you have one tomorrow.”

“Nah, I don’t think I need to study for it,” he lies. “I figure I’ll just sit out here with you guys and watch whatever the hell is going on in this show.”

“Please don’t,” Wonwoo whines. “You’re just gonna make comments the whole time.”

“Hell yes, I am, and as someone who pays rent to live here, I reserve the right to make comments on whatever I want within these walls. Fuck both of you.” He assumes a spot on the carpet at Soonyoung’s feet, and they groan again.

In the whirlwind of assignments and deadlines and various other distractions, Jihoon almost forgets his birthday is approaching until it’s nearly upon him. It’s Thursday by the time he realizes his birthday is coming up on Saturday, and as he trudges home from class, he wonders if it’s even worth it to try to scrape together last minute plans or if he ought to resign to spending it doing nothing. Neither Soonyoung nor Wonwoo makes any indication that they’re aware of its coming, much less that they have any plans to spend the day with him, and he’s pretty sure he remembers Junhui saying he has a big project due soon, so he decides he may as well just go buy himself a cupcake from the grocery store Saturday night and call it a day.

Saturday morning, Jihoon exits his bedroom to find Soonyoung already bustling around the kitchen. It’s a rare thing to see Soonyoung out of bed before noon on a weekend, and it instantly arouses suspicion, but Soonyoung is very transparent about his intentions from the get-go.

“I’m making you breakfast,” he announces when he hears the door creak open, “because I forgot it was your birthday and I accidentally made plans with Wonwoo, and I don’t want to feel like a total shithead of a roommate or for you to feel neglected.” He pushes the eggs around with a spatula, and Jihoon listens to them sizzle as he takes a seat at one of the stools by the counter. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

“Thanks.” He watches Soonyoung cook for a little while, slapping bacon onto a skillet, then asks, “What are you and Wonwoo doing?”

“We’re, uhh… We’re going to… You know, we uh…”

“Please tell me you aren’t watching Desperate Housewives again.”

“You know what?” Soonyoung huffs. “Shut up.” He whips around angrily, waving the spatula with vigor. A few specks of egg fly to the floor, and Jihoon knows he’ll probably be the one who ends up cleaning them up. “I’ll finish making you breakfast just because I already said I was doing it, but my happy birthday wish no longer stands.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jihoon sighs. “Thanks anyway.”

By the time Soonyoung plates up he breakfast, he’s forgotten to act angry, and he sets the food down in front of Jihoon with his trademark cheesy smile, cheeks puffed out and eyes crinkled up above a gleaming set of teeth. He even gives Jihoon an affectionate pat on the head on his way out the door, and while Jihoon would normally hate it, he just swallows his pancakes and lets it happen because he supposes he should take any gifts that come his way, no matter what form they may take. He doesn’t fail to notice, however, that Soonyoung pointedly neglected to clean the egg off the floor before he left.

After he finishes eating and wipes the mess off the tile, he settles himself on the couch to watch whatever’s on and interesting. Unfortunately, there isn’t anything interesting on, so he finds himself glued to the Weather Channel for an hour and a half before deciding that this is the saddest possible way to spend his birthday and he deserves better for himself. He resolutely plucks himself from the sunken cushions and laces up his shoes, and before his legs even realize they’re walking, he’s standing outside Junhui’s door with a fist raised to knock.

Junhui looks confused when he opens the door, but it quickly melts into a welcoming smile when he meets Jihoon’s eyes. “Hey,” he says warmly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “What’s up?” Jihoon notices that he looks bizarrely attractive in an undershirt and sweatpants, slightly frazzled with quiet remnants of bedhead.

“Are you busy right now?” Jihoon’s brain chooses this moment to realize that it forgot the project Junhui said he had due, and now he feels awful for showing up unannounced, but Junhui doesn’t seem to mind too much.

“Not really, no,” he answers cheerfully. “Do you want to come in?”

“Didn’t you have a project to do?” Nerves are gnawing at Jihoon now that he’s recalled he’s probably intruding on what Junhui had intended to be a productive day.

“I finished most of it,” he says, and Jihoon can’t tell if he’s being genuine or lying just to make him feel better. “You look really cold, so come inside. I’ll make hot chocolate.”

Jihoon has about four blankets on top of him when he settles into the couch with his steaming mug of hot cocoa, and he’d die before parting with any one of them. Junhui sticks in the DVD of Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town because “it’s never too early for Christmas in this household,” and while Jihoon hates to even think about decorated trees or giftwrap any time before two weeks prior to actual Christmas day, he doesn’t utter a word of complaint because he’s far more grateful not to be spending his day staring at the distressingly low temperature displayed on a thirty-two-inch screen. He’s drained his mug before the Winter Warlock has learned how to [walk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OORsz2d1H7s), and the way Junhui tugs at the neck of his shirt proves too distracting for him to stick around to watch it happen.

His bare back is pressed flush against the gently rumpled sheets when he feels the urge to say it, and he doesn’t even know why he wants to say it, but he does anyway. “It’s my birthday today,” he breathes, eyes on the ceiling, and he’s almost not sure Junhui hears it until he detaches his mouth from its post on the inside of Jihoon’s thigh.

“Oh yeah,” he says like he already knew, breath ghosting over exposed skin and sending a chill up Jihoon’s spine. “There’s a cake in the fridge,” he continues before putting his lips back to their previous business. “We can eat it later.”

“Why do you have a cake in the fridge?”

“Because I went and bought it yesterday.” There’s a bit of a curious light in his eyes that tells Jihoon not to ask any more questions, so he shuts his mouth as much as the situation permits.

Not for the first time, Jihoon feels like they’re something of a two-piece puzzle, but for the first time, he thinks puzzles might be more than just physical things. Of course, he doesn’t mean real, cardboard puzzles, the kind with corner pieces and edges that everyone pieces together halfway only to subsequently give up on. He means living puzzles, moving stretches of muscle around bones and under skin, breathing puzzles with charming smiles and cute freckles and unusual affinities for Monet. Dynamic puzzles like him and Junhui, where the boundary between body and mind is a little more blurred than he’d thought originally. Puzzles where strings might form out of nowhere to attach the pieces to each other.

One single candle is stuck unceremoniously in the top of the miniature cake after Junhui removes it from the fridge. It takes him three matches, but he eventually manages to light it, and he forces Jihoon into making a wish, except he doesn’t know what to wish for, so he just closes his eyes and pretends to think of one. Junhui can probably tell that he doesn’t even try to come up with something to wish for, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

“Did you buy this cake for my birthday?” Jihoon asks as he makes his way through his half of the confection. The answer seems obvious, but he still feels like he wants to hear it, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get what he wants on his birthday.

“Yeah,” Junhui admits readily, and Jihoon appreciates that he doesn’t point out how clear the answer should have been.

“How did you know it was coming up?”

“I asked Soonyoung a few weeks ago,” he confesses, scratching his chin with the handle of his fork. “I think he mentioned that it was this month, so I asked him what day.” He sticks another forkful of cake in his mouth, licking a stripe of stray icing off his bottom lip. “I almost forgot to go get a cake, too, so it’s lucky I remembered.” Jihoon mulls over that for a minute, chewing on it alongside dessert before jumping to his next query.

“What if I hadn’t come over?” He knows he’s asking too many questions, but he’s also determined to know, and as long as Junhui isn’t acting annoyed, he’ll press until he’s satisfied.

“I don’t know,” he answers with a shrug. “I would’ve called you, probably. What else am I gonna do, eat _your_ birthday cake by myself?” He grins broadly, putting the final bite of cake in his mouth. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Jihoon can’t bring himself to do anything but stare blankly at the scene in front of him, arms limp and eyes glassed over. He has no idea how he got here; nothing in his life up to now has pointed him to sitting on the floor and eating cake off a coffee table, to staring at the man opposite him and thinking he’s seeing the most impossible spectacle on earth. It doesn’t make sense to think of someone as filling up all your excess space in negative, but it almost makes sense to almost think it, and Jihoon is glad he decided to sign up for an art history class at nine in the morning.

“You alright?” Junhui asks when he notices the cosmos swirling in the recesses of Jihoon’s mind.

“I love you,” Jihoon accidentally says.

“I love you, too,” Junhui says back casually before he has a chance to retract it, and Jihoon’s not sure if his was also accidental. “Are you done with your cake?” he asks, reaching for Jihoon’s plate, but he’s unwilling to give it up.

“Junhui.”

“Hm?” His fingers tug impatiently at the plate, but Jihoon’s grip is unyielding.

“I love you,” Jihoon repeats, more serious this time, more intentional. Junhui levels his gaze, pull on the edge of the plate waning.

“Yeah,” he says curiously, “I love you, too. Can I take your plate now?” Jihoon lets it go without putting up a fight this time, watches Junhui’s back as he goes to throw the plates in the trash.

“I just realized it,” Jihoon mumbles when Junhui sits back down and tucks his knees under his chin in that way Jihoon’s grown very fond of.

“You just what?”

“I just realized I’m in love with you,” he clarifies. “What are we now, then?”

“What do you mean, what are we?”

“I mean we aren’t just friends who have sex anymore, so what does that make us now?”

“Listen, Jihoon,” Junhui says, extending a hand across the small table. Jihoon takes it without thinking. “You can call us whatever you want.” He brings his other hand across the table to trap Jihoon’s in a warm and gentle vise. “But, personally, if anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m not single, and if anyone asks me who you are, I’ll tell them I love you.” His fingertips brush lightly over Jihoon’s knuckles while he articulates the words, soft and reassuring. “I wouldn’t be upset at all if you did the same.”

“Okay.” Jihoon gulps because the lightness in his chest is the heaviest thing he’s ever felt, and he’s not sure if how much more of it he wants outweighs how much more of it he can handle. “I’ll do the same, then.”

“I also wouldn’t be upset at all if you kissed me right now,” he says, wrinkles budding at the corners of his eyes where his smile pushes his cheeks up.

It’s November 22nd when they have sex for the last time. They leave the bedroom to split a cake in half, and Jihoon doesn’t make a wish when he blows out the candle because something under his ribs is telling him he doesn’t need to. It’s still November 22nd when they find their way back to Junhui’s bed and have sex for the second first time.

**Author's Note:**

> (hey cat are u reading. all this soonwoo is for u)
> 
> ANYWAY WOW HEY WOW nice to see u all again (or for the first time idk nice to meet u), nice to be back here in the junhoon tag for the SIXTH DAMN TIME and i just want to say that i had soooooooooo much enthusiasm for this au and it may not fall within the range of what i typically write but i truly truly hope you liked reading it as much as i liked writing it and i'm immensely grateful that you took the time to read it (or at least skip to the end and read the author's note). additionally this fic has been formally sponsored by ailee's "home", which i listened to about 25 times in a row while i was finishing it  
> FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART thank u so much. as always, feedback is tremendously appreciated!! and i'm sure i'll be back at it again fuckin it up in the junhoon tag before too terribly long. thank you once again!


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